


Life In Sussex

by iriswallpaper



Series: Retirement in Sussex [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Afterlife, Children, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Friendship, Gay Sherlock, Grandchildren, Grief/Mourning, Happy family times, Heteroflexible John, I hope you brought pancakes because there's a lot of syrupy sweetness, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Making mead, Mead is a honey based alcohol so it's sweet, Muscle car, Of course there's a muscle car - every fic I write winds up with one, Old men who live each other so much, One Big Happy Family, Pack a toothbrush, Retirementlock, Romance, Same-Sex Marriage, Serious sappiness, Sherlock & John in love, Sherlock Holmes and Bees, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Sherlock is an apiculture expert, So much sweetness you'll develop diabetes, Sussex, Three honey pot warning, Travel, so sweet you'll get cavities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-07 10:21:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4259688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iriswallpaper/pseuds/iriswallpaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Continuation of John Comes To Sussex. </p><p>The time for Sherlock and John’s relationship has finally come. Retired life for husbands whose love finally flowered late in life.</p><p>A story of happiness, loss, rediscovered love and contentment.</p><p>Fluffy retirement times with lots of family, friends, travels and general feel-good domestic bliss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Sherlock woke with the first rays of dawn shining through the east-facing window. He stretched and rolled his shoulders then turned carefully toward the other warm body in the bed. 

His husband. John. The sight of John Watson’s sleeping face thrilled him every morning. It was enough to keep him in bed most nights, even when he was on fire with a new interest or new bit of data on his apiary research. When John stretched and made toward the bedroom Sherlock took it as his cue to bound toward the bedroom shedding a trail of clothing behind. The tedium of sleeping was worth it to wake up beside John.

John’s lined face was so lovely in sleep. Sherlock could just lie and watch him sleep for hours. The veins on his eyelids made a red-blue-purple roadmap against the nearly translucent skin. His eye rested behind them; John would wake soon, so Sherlock had missed the back-and-forth motions of his REM cycles. Sherlock inspected every hair of John’s eyebrows - they were varying shades of gray and white now without a trace of the brown they’d been when Sherlock first fell in love with him. His eyelashes, on the other hand, were still brown-black and thick against the bags under his eyes. Sherlock had put those bags under John’s eyes by keeping him up too late the night before. Even if they lived to 100 - and Sherlock fervently hoped they did - he would never have enough of John’s physical love. He’d waited so very long to love John that now he feasted like a starving man at every opportunity. 

The lines deeply etched in John’s cheeks said both “laughter” and “frown” to Sherlock. Sherlock hoped his husband would carve new laugh lines in his cheeks and that eventually they would overtake the frown lines, and the frowns would get lost in the smiles. He’d do everything in his power to put more smile lines in those beloved cheeks.

The duvet was tucked up to John’s chin. Sherlock was glad he’d chosen dark blue when picking it out when he was a widower with no thoughts that John would ever sleep under it. The color suited everything about John, both his complexion and his eyes. Sherlock wondered now if he’d unconsciously had John’s coloring in mind when he picked it out so many years ago. He wanted to inch the duvet down so he could admire John’s still-strong neck and chest but he was afraid he’d wake John in doing so. Instead he contented himself with studying John’s jaw. The skin covering John’s jaw was still firm for a man his age and showed only a little softness that may later become jowls. Sherlock smiled to see that John hadn’t shaved the day before. He’d loved it when John had grown a beard several times over the years. It had been many years since John had sported a beard and Sherlock hoped his husband was considering it now. Sherlock looked closely at the two-day shadow. It was varying shades of gray with a not insignificant amount of white. Sherlock smiled at the thought of John in a thick white beard. 

“Why the smile, love?” John had opened his eyes while Sherlock was inspecting his whiskers. John’s lapiz blue eyes twinkled as he smiled at his husband. 

“I was just thinking of you with a beard. I would love to see that again.”

John barked a laugh. “I’m afraid I’d look like Father Christmas if I tried to grow a beard now.”

“You’d look handsome and I would love it.”

John continued to chuckle. He reached a hand out from under the duvet to caress Sherlock’s cheek. “Grow your own beard, you git. How would you like to walk around with a reminder of how you’re an old man now?”

Sherlock grinned into John’s eyes. “I love it that you’re an old man. Because you’re finally mine. I had to wait so very long, but it was worth every minute.”

John’s face turned solemn and his eyes misted. He caressed Sherlock's face tenderly. “And you’re my old man, too. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Now kiss me good morning, old man.”

And Sherlock did.


	2. Of hives and husbands and travels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had originally added this as a chapter in John Comes To Sussex. So, if you read it there already, this will seem familiar. I decided to break it into two separate fics and this chapter fit better in the sequel.

They settled into married life with ease. John accepted a few speaking engagements at medical conferences. Sometimes Sherlock went along if the conference was in a city that he wanted to visit and especially if one of his apiology colleges was nearby. They watched basketball and football games at the pub in the center of the small town and collected a group of acquaintances that quickly turned into new friends. Sherlock had never owned a vehicle in his life. John thought the cab fees Sherlock spent to visit his far-flung research hives were exorbitant enough to justify the purchase of a small vehicle. Sherlock argued if they were going to purchase a car, it might as well be something they really wanted and that at their age they’d earned the reward of a nice vehicle. John grumbled about his husband’s ‘late midlife crisis’ and asked Sherlock what was next, a motorcycle and a 20-something trophy wife? Sherlock’s eyes lit up at the idea of a motorcycle but John quickly squelched that train of thought. Eventually Sherlock found a completely restored red 1965 Mustang 3 speed coupe with white vinyl interior and black carpet for sale for a reasonable price. They both fell in love with it immediately and purchased it on the spot with no haggling. They named her “Francine” for no other reason than Sherlock thought of the name first. They argued over who got to drive when they took her out together but Sherlock usually gave in; he loved to watch John’s face as he drove, the delight in his expression as they raced down country roads. With the freedom of transportation at his disposal daily, Sherlock expanded his hives to include 12 additional farms and used the new hives to run a concurrent study to the longitudinal study he’d been conducting with the original hives. One of the established hives experienced colony collapse that year. Sherlock took it much better than the first time because it was difficult for him to remain sad with John beside him.

 

John accompanied his husband on his annual trip to North Carolina. The students who received Victor’s award had both remarked during dinner how cool it was that two old dudes were newlyweds. John and Sherlock looked at each other and remarked “Old!” at the same time, then laughed like idiots. They rented a car – muscle car, of course, a glossy black Dodge Challenger SXT V8 with manual transmission – and drove down the coast to Charleston, South Carolina. They happened to catch Charleston during the annual Spoleto Music Festival; they were charmed by the music they found at every turn in the historic district. They extended their stay by another five days to enjoy it longer.

 

They toured Ft. Sumpter; Sherlock forgot a hat and got his nose sunburned. They returned to their hotel for a nap during the heat of the day. John smoothed sunburn gel over Sherlock’s face. He wiped his hands on his legs and carded his fingers through Sherlock’s still-thick hair. Sherlock had kept his sable curls with only a distinguished splash of white at each temple. John still couldn’t believe he had every legal right to run his hands through the thick mess any time he wanted; Sherlock reveled in John’s touch and relaxed into a boneless heap as John continued to pet his curls.

 

On the morning of their last day in South Carolina they drove out to Magnolia Plantation for a tour. They were both taken with the stunning gardens. John found the slavery exhibits repugnant but they appealed to Sherlock’s sense of the macabre. They ate lunch at the on-site restaurant and returned to Charleston in time to wander the streets of the historic district and take in more Spoleto acts. They happened upon a tiny café in a back street with a few tables on the sidewalk and were lucky enough to find one open. They ate prawns in garlic sauce and drank white wine while watching a zydeco quartet play on the sidewalk across the narrow street. It featured a lithe young African American man playing washboard, a contraption neither Sherlock nor John had seen before. The ‘washboard’ was a steel apron with bent tabs that fitted over the player’s shoulders. The chest piece of the apron was scored and folded in a pattern resembling an old-fashioned washboard. The player used steel ‘drumsticks’ to strum across the washboard surface. He carried the temp for the band but could also draw various notes from the steel, creating melodies and sometimes harmonizing with the banjo, harmonica and upright bass. In addition to playing, the washboard player leaped, danced, hopped and wove in and out of the pedestrians on the sidewalk with a beautiful smile gracing his face. The music was captivating and performance mesmerizing.

 

Sherlock wanted to head straight to Sussex when they returned to England but John was tired and insisted they spend the night at Baker Street. Sherlock prowled his office on the ground floor while John slept. He ended up immersed in old case files and decided they should spend a few days in town. His teens agreed to continue tending the hives and record data for a few days longer. John notified the Watson clan; that set off a whirlwind of visitors that kept John occupied while Sherlock remained closeted in 221a. Eventually Sherlock resurfaced with two bankers boxes stuffed with files he wanted to write up and add to the detective blog. He’d overlooked them when he summarized the last of his cases for the agency. They wrapped up their stay in London with dinner with Greg and Molly. Their friends had been married more than 25 years. They’d hoped early on for children of their own, but none came. Molly had been the world’s best stepmother for Greg’s daughters; they called her Mamma Molly and their children called her Grandma. Greg’s first wife had remarried two more times before dying of lung cancer in her late 50s. Greg and Molly had put up with her over the years for the girl’s sake, but their lives had been easier since her passing.

 

They returned to their country cottage on a rainy day. They were forced by the downpour to take a cab from the train station. They found the roof had sprung a leak in their absence. They rushed to place buckets and bowls in the bedroom under eaves to catch the water and keep it from doing any further damage. Sherlock left John to deal with arranging repairs the next morning, dashing off to check his hives before the sun was properly up. The roofer found rot in the rafters under a few faulty shingles. What started as a small leak turned into a full replacement of the roof, including replacing parts of the decking and three rafters. The job dragged on for most of the summer, setting both men’s nerves on edge. They’d had several rows over stupid things like toothpaste caps and whose turn it was to do the dishes. It climaxed one night with John thumping up the stairs to flop down in the guest bed. Sherlock had sulked for two hours alone in their big bed before deciding he’d had enough. He’d pounded up the stairs, waking John in the process, and demanded John return to his rightful place. John had sighed and rolled his eyes in a perfect imitation of Sherlock’s usual move. Both men burst out laughing and John pulled Sherlock into bed. They’d made love then tried to sleep in the smaller bed but there just wasn’t enough room for all their legs and elbows. Just before dawn they’d crept down to their room and held each other tight as they caught a few hours of sleep. After that night when the stress of roofing contractors pounding overhead became too much, one or the other would sigh and roll their eyes, setting off waves of laughter each time.


	3. Of bees and husbands and honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm adding two chapters today since I'd already posted Chapter 2 in John Comes To Sussex. I hope you enjoy this new chapter as a bonus.

The fast pace of their life had melted John’s middle age spread in the first year of their marriage. Even after buying the Mustang they walked into town for most errands. John took over most of the gardening when Sherlock added his new hives. The bending, shoveling and raking had done even more for John’s muscle tone and flexibility. At 74 and 70 they were more fit than most men of 50. Food had always been an annoyance for Sherlock and after moving to the country, John had joined him in that attitude. They mostly ate salads, fresh vegetables from their garden, fruits and cold meats. John cooked a proper meal a few nights a week and once in a while Sherlock surprised him with a delicious meal made from scratch.

Sherlock developed the first twinges of arthritis in his knees. Through exhaustive research he learned that grains could exacerbate arthritis symptoms. They threw out the bread and oatmeal and adopted a grain-free diet with little trouble. John joked that he would swim the Channel for his 75th birthday. Sherlock, in his usual way, became obsessed with the idea. He ordered a heated resistance lap pool installed at the back of the property, behind the hives, and a steel-framed enclosure of glass and timber built over it. He justified the extravagant pricetag to John by showing him research that proved swimming helped arthritis.He also used money his grandmother had left him when he was a young man. Mycroft had invested it for him and he was able to pay for the lap pool and poolhouse without touching the original principal

They swam every morning and most evenings, logging endless miles in the pool and both men felt better than they had in 10 years. The twinges disappeared from Sherlock’s knees and John’s bad shoulder gained additional range of motion. The side of the pool house facing the garden could be opened like a giant accordion. They left it open in warm weather to the breeze and the gentle hum of their bees. John might never swim the Channel but he certainly appreciated the indulgent luxury of having an indoor pool in the back garden.

Sherlock was chosen to present his research at the Eastern Apicultural Society annual conference in Toronto. He immersed himself in preparing his presentation, sometimes forgetting John’s existence for days at a time. John was used to being ignored so he took up a new interest: making mead. Sherlock’s hives gave a near-endless supply of honey and they’d had to contract out preparation and bottling of it to a local business; otherwise they would have spent their days solely in honey processing. They’d saturated the local market, begging small shops to carry their product and making just enough revenue to cover the expenses. John believed mead would be an ideal way to use up some of the bees’ bounty. 

John went up to London for a one-day beginning brewing class. He purchased a how-to book, large fermenting bucket with lid, an airlock valve, a hydrometer and yeast. He was home before bedtime; Sherlock didn’t even notice his absence. John shopped for supplies to flavor his first batch the next day: whole cloves, apples and blueberries. He mixed the recipe in the eight gallon bucket and placed it in the corner of the pantry to ferment. He found he rather liked his new roll of mazer and wished he’d purchased more supplies. 

Mead making takes patience; one day of mixing followed by months of waiting, then an intense day of racking - bottling the final mead. He called up the brewer’s supply store where he took the class and arranged to have more fermenting buckets, valves and yeast shipped down. Sherlock was still in his own world, muttering about acarapis externus and Kashmir Bee Virus, when John’s supplies came. John mixed four additional batches of mead, one plain and three with different flavoring ingredients: raspberries, vanilla beans, orange slices with the peel attached, cinnamon sticks. The buckets took up nearly the entire floor of the pantry, leaving only a narrow path to stand. 

Sherlock finally noticed a week later when he stubbed his big toe on a bucket while reaching for a can of coffee. He’d bellowed John’s name and asked what in God’s name had taken over their pantry. John laughed until tears streamed down his cheeks as he reminded Sherlock that he’d given him quite a detailed talk of his plans for making mead. Sherlock insisted that John had not said a word, which sent John into new fits of laughter. He explained it all over again to his husband and, in his usual way, Sherlock also became obsessed with mead. He berated John for not keeping honey from each hive separate in his mixing; he’d have liked to do a comparison study of mead made from the honey of each different hive. John just laughed and promised that next time he’d involve Sherlock from the beginning but they’d need to build an additional building if Sherlock wanted to brew batches from each hive. The pantry didn’t have room for 24 buckets at a time.

Toronto was beautiful in September. The skies were clear, the days were warm and the evenings called for a light jacket. John kept busy walking the waterfront and downtown areas while Sherlock was busy with his conference. He took in an afternoon baseball game and had more fun than he’d expected when he booked the ticket. The Blue Jays beat the Seattle Mariners; the game went into extra innings with the Blue Jays winning by one run in the bottom of the 11th. The folks in seats surrounding John were open and friendly and by the end of the game, John found mates three mates to grab a pint with. 

The Real Sports Bar was populated by a throng of excited fans celebrating the victory. One pint turned into three; John was pleasantly buzzed when he returned to the room to find Sherlock waiting, slightly panicked that John was late and hadn’t answered his texts. John grabbed his face and kissed him happily while describing the game and post-game festivities at the bar, where it was too loud to hear his text alerts. Sherlock responded with a fond-expatriated noise in his throat; John pushed him onto the bed and ravished him. Dinner was very late that night.

Sherlock’s talk was well received. John had coached him on softening his expression so he didn’t look so crabby on stage, and how to respond to questions during the Q&A without calling anyone an idiot. He’d done an amazing job; he was charismatic and confident, his research was flawless and he made it through the Q&A without a single eye-roll, loud sigh or rude remark. Eminent experts with doctorates in the field crowded around him afterward to ask his opinion on their research methods. John stood by nearly bursting with pride for his brilliant husband. Sherlock was too keyed up from his success for dinner. Instead they walked the waterfront trail until the moon rose. John finally protested he was tired and dragged Sherlock back to the hotel for his own brand of congratulations. They returned to London the next day and rested up at Baker Street for two nights before returning to their beloved country haven.


	4. Of houses and grandchildren and higher education

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More rambling good times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I now have a Beta for this story. A million thanks to Morwen_Maranwe for the excellent suggestions!

John’s oldest granddaughter called in tears. She was in her second year in university and her parents wouldn’t let her move out. She cried to Grandpa John that she wasn’t a child, she could handle the demands of coursework and keeping her own flat. John murmured reassurances and made soothing sounds until she ran out of steam. After he got off the phone he asked his husband what he thought about their granddaughter living in the guest room at Baker Street for a bit. Sherlock thought it was a brilliant idea. 

Baker Street sat unoccupied for weeks, sometimes months at a time, the cleaning crew coming once a week the only activity. Having their granddaughter occupying the place would ease their fears of any random break-in if a punk noticed the house seemed unoccupied. They went up to London to have a chat with John’s daughter, son-in-law and granddaughter. Sherlock drew up an agreement (non-binding of course) outlining what they expected of the 19 year old and what they would provide in turn. She’d have the use of the guest room, living room and bathroom. Sherlock and John’s room remained off limits, as was 221a and 221c. There would be no rowdy parties and she was responsible for repairs if anything ended up broken. John contacted a security company and arranged to have a home security system installed with separate alarms for the front and back doors, the doors to A, B and C and all the windows accessible from the ground floor or the fire escape.

She’d moved in with little fuss and the husbands found they breathed a little easier knowing that there was daily life in 221B again. Sherlock had the idea of finally remodeling 221C and addressing the damp problem. He also offered up 221A since he didn’t need an office in London any longer. Sherlock contacted an architect to draw up plans to divide the rooms in A and C to make them two bedroom flats rather than just one bedroom. That would give them four bedrooms to offer up when the other grandchildren came of age. They also added a tiny bathroom for the third floor to their plans. 

They waited until November to start renovations - after the garden was put to bed for the winter and the hives covered and their treatments were completed. Sherlock planned that he and John would do much of the finish work themselves; he hired a general contractor for the major work. Once the walls were up and the plumbing and electrical inspected and certified, Sherlock found he’d rather have some help. He asked the older grandchildren to come round and learn valuable life skills. He was patient with them, carefully explaining each step of whatever project they were working on, and tolerant of their mistakes. Both men and teens enjoyed their time working together and the children spent the night at Baker Street most weekends. Together they painted, tiled, wallpapered – of course Sherlock found more of the iris wallpaper online – caulked and grouted. By Easter the entirety of 221 Baker Street was freshly outfitted and ready for occupation.

The husbands took all of the grandchildren furniture shopping in groups of two and three, including even the youngest. They took the children’s tastes into consideration but reserved final decision. They furnished A and C with sturdy furniture that would last through all of the children’s university years and beyond. The next two grandchildren took up residence that September, one in A and one in C. They both asked their grandpas if they could invite a friend to live in the other bedrooms. After careful consideration, John and Sherlock agreed. Their solicitor drew up a lease agreement for the additional young people to sign.

Sherlock had worried that having all those young adults about would ruin the atmosphere of Baker Street for visits. Instead both he and John found they enjoyed the positive energy of their tenants. Whether they spent a night or a week, they enjoyed the comings-and-goings of the students immensely. They hosted game nights in 221B for all the residents and their friends, sharing beers and lively conversation. The grandchildren’s friend remarked often how ‘young and cool’ the grandpas were. Sherlock was disappointed that none of the students took an interest in apiology. He told John sternly they’d have to have the younger children down more often for through training in the ways of bees and hives to ensure at least one would carry on Grandpa Sherlock’s work.

And they did, rotating the grandchildren in groups of two or three the entire summer. They kept four of the youngest for two weeks to give their parents a much-needed break. Sherlock set up ‘Camp Grandpas’ with scheduled activities, planned menus supplied by the local caterer and evening fires on the patio. The rented a small car for the duration so they could all go to the research hives together. It was during that magical fortnight that Sherlock found his heir apparent –actually, four. A passion for beekeeping caught fire in all four of the children. They were young yet, ages 6 to 8, but Sherlock had no plan to kick off before they were old enough to fully understand his research. They spent a day bottling the latest batch of John’s mead. He let them taste the sweet alcohol; the children wrinkled their noses and gagged, vowing never to drink alcohol as long as they lived. John and joked to Sherlock that he’d have to recruit an heir apparent mazer from the teens or uni students. Sherlock thought it was a brilliant idea and fired off emails to all of the older children.

The teens came in groups, older cousins traveling together and walking out to the house alone. The ones still in school were thrilled with the ‘grown up’ responsibilities. John spaced out batches of mead over the late summer so that each interested grandchild could mix at least two buckets of their own. They labeled the buckets with their name and the recipe they’d used and carefully placed them in the pantry. Instead of one budding mazer, John found a whole crop. All of the older grandchildren took a keen interest in mead; they emailed links to interesting articles to Grandpa John kept up a lively text correspondence among the entire group. They all promised to come back for the bottling in four months’ time.

Days were filled to overflowing with activities; Sherlock and John tumbled into bed exhausted each night. But they never let the hectic pace of grandchildren and bees get in the way of their relationship. Sherlock still had tricks up his sleeve and he left John gasping in surprise or begging for more at least twice a week. John still couldn’t believe he’d been hung up on not wanting to be seen as gay for so many years. If he’d known about Sherlock’s prowess when they were in their 30s, life might have turned out very different for both of them. He put those thoughts away because he wouldn’t have had happy years with Mary and the children and Sherlock would never have met Victor. And, they wouldn’t have lives full to bursting with family and interesting work now. Life had worked out as it worked out and John was grateful for it.

They took the 9 and 8 year old budding apiologists with them on their trip to the University of North Carolina. Both Sherlock and John talked to them as equals and broke down concepts to a level just slightly above their understanding, making sure to mix in simpler terms so the children could feel a sense of mastery. Sherlock’s academic colleges at North Carolina State University also included the children in their meetings. It served to cement their passion for bees and hives and Sherlock knew he’d indeed have someone to keep his research going when the time came. 

They took their annual trip to Chapel Hill; the Tarheels coach let the children shoot baskets on the court of the Dean Smith Center. Sherlock and John spoke open and often of Victor and Mary, wanting the grandchildren to always remember their grandmother and uncle. The youngest had the foggiest memories; they’d only known Victor from photographs and stories and had been very young when their grandmother died. Never the less, they’d proudly told the coaching staff that ‘their’ Uncle had been the best basketball player of all time at UNC. Dinner with the winners of Victor’s scholarship served to set fire to a passion for basketball in the youngsters. Both the men’s basketball winner and the women’s were lovely young people, articulate and entertaining and tolerant of the children tagging along to their dinner. The grandfathers returned the children to their parents once they were back in London with a promise to install a basketball hoop at the Sussex cottage.

Sherlock made good on that promise. He contracted to have concrete poured over the gravel semi-circular drive in front and a pole, backboard and hoop installed to the side. He even brought in a painter to paint a full key, with both men’s and women’s three point lines, so the children would learn to shoot accurately. All of the grandchildren, from oldest to youngest, spent time shooting hoops when they visited. It made Sherlock happy to hear the sound of the ball and their laughter as they challenged each other to games of ‘h-o-r-s-e’ and free throw competitions. He and John would have a friendly many evenings they were alone, taking care not to twist knees or bruise elbows, playing together into the gloaming then sitting on the front porch to watch the moon rise.


	5. Of birthdays and putting ghosts to rest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Morwen_Maranwe for betaing this chapter and all your wonderful suggestions!

Sherlock arranged a surprise party for John’s 75th birthday with the help of his daughters. They invited family and friends to descend on Baker Street at 7pm on his birth date, which happened to be a Friday night. Sherlock took his husband to dinner at Angelo’s. He’d talked to Angelo’s daughter, who now ran the restaurant, and had given her the script he wanted her to say when they arrived. She placed a RESERVED sign in the window booth awaiting their arrival. She delivered her lines flawlessly, saying the same things her father had said at their first dinner together so many years ago and placing a candle on the table on cue. John laughed and played along, asking Sherlock if he had a girlfriend and nearly falling out of his seat when Sherlock answered, “Girlfriend? Not really my area.” Sherlock laughed so hard when John asked, “Alright... Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way,” that he’d been almost unable to deliver his answering line. 

John suggested they walk back to Baker Street, but Sherlock lied and said his knees were bothering him; he needed to get John home to his party. Baker Street was dark and quiet, and John could not have been more surprised when he flicked on the light switch to find the living room crowded beyond capacity with family and friends shouting and laughing. John’s daughters had arranged food and drink and hired folding chairs to accommodate the crowd. A full bar was set out on the kitchen counter top and snacks covered the table. A large chocolate cake held the place of honor in the center with “Happy Birthday John” spelled out in green icing. The grandchildren crowded around as Sherlock lit the candles shaped like a 7 and a 5. John pretended to be too old and out of breath to blow them out; he lifted their youngest granddaughter into his lap and let her do the honor. 

Sherlock had asked the guests to please refrain from gifts yet somehow there was a pile of wrapped boxes on the coffee table. Sherlock rolled his eyes at them, but John good-naturedly opened each and remarked about it in turn as the guests ate cake. His children had put together a scrapbook of his life. They’d found pictures from his childhood, his university days, medical training, and the Army. Several pages were devoted to newspaper clippings of his adventures with Sherlock when they were young. His wedding photo with Mary, Sherlock, and the bridesmaids made both men groan about how young they’d been. Pages and pages had pictures of his and Mary’s family, including Uncle Sherlock and Uncle Victor; that section concluded with a copy of Mary’s obituary. The next section started with a printout of the email John and Sherlock had sent to invite the guests to their wedding. There were pictures from the happy day, snapshots of them in the garden, John at a hive surrounded by grandchildren, the construction of the pool and pool house, and even photos from their travels abroad that Sherlock had secretly shared with John’s daughter. John was overcome after flipping through the thick book, hugging his children and Sherlock in turn. Sherlock held him tight even when he tried to pull away, needing time to compose himself and giving John time to get his emotions under control. 

Grandchildren and friends gave John tins of gourmet nuts, books on mead making, military history, Afghanistan, and DVDs of the James Bond films starring Daniel Craig. The last gift in the pile was a small box with a card that read “to my husband.” Sherlock asked the guests to indulge him as he wanted to present his gift in private. They cheered and cat-called as he led John down the hall to their bedroom. 

John opened the small box and then peered up at Sherlock in open-mouthed shock. The box contained a scrap of black velvet and on it sat Victor’s wedding band, gleaming in the dim light, still threaded on the golden chain. John stammered that he didn’t understand. Sherlock told him through tears that he knew he’d hurt John by wearing that ring under his shirt on their wedding day. He wanted John to have it now so he’d have a reminder that he had top place in Sherlock’s heart. John lifted the chain, dangling it from his fingertips. The heavy ring swayed slightly. He stared at it for several moments while he struggled to get control of himself. Sherlock was having a hard time controlling himself as well, snuffling and wiping at his eyes. John unclasped the chain and stood on his toes to fasten it around Sherlock’s neck. 

He told Sherlock that he had felt an emotion he couldn’t even label when he saw it there on their wedding day – hurt, regret, sadness - but that emotion had transmuted over the years until he was happy and honored to share Sherlock’s heart with a man such as Victor. He told his husband he never considered that his place was secondary, but that he held equal honor with Sherlock’s first husband. He said he couldn’t accept the gift because it wasn’t Sherlock’s to give. Victor’s ring belonged to Victor, and Victor belonged to Sherlock. Both husbands broke down then, clinging to each other and letting tears scald their cheeks at last.

The grandchildren peeled off to A and C for games and giggles, the older ones tolerating their younger siblings and cousins for the sake of their grandfathers. The adults talked and sipped drinks until well after midnight. John was as keyed up at the end of the night as Sherlock had been after his Toronto presentation, riding a wave of adrenaline and familial love. Sherlock firmly shut the door of 221B and locked it tight against the young people who were still roaming between A and C, then took his husband to bed and loved him until he was pliant and boneless.

Sherlock threatened John with bodily harm if he so much as thought about planning any type of party for his 72nd birthday; John calmly agreed he would never insult Sherlock’s dignity with such a thing. On the morning of his birthday, Sherlock ran five miles just to prove to himself that he still could. John presented him with a double-wide hammock and a steel-frame stand; he feigned offense that he would ever be a lazy retiree dozing in the garden all afternoon. After a shower and breakfast he and John took a meandering, pointless drive in the Mustang. They found a charming pub in a town they’d never visited before and lingered long over dinner. Sherlock drove home because John had downed two pints to his one. After parking the car, John took Sherlock’s hand and led him to the pool house. They made love in the twilight with the pool house windows folded open to the breeze, feeling shockingly decadent and laughing together at what the neighbors would say if they were caught. John eventually roused himself and pulled on his trousers to fit the hammock frame together in the dim light from the patio lamp. He hooked up the hammock, flipped off the light and fetched a blanket from the bedroom, then dragged Sherlock from his stupor. They curled together in the hammock, identifying constellations in the stars and murmuring endearments until they dropped off to sleep.


	6. Of new beginnings and close calls

The next year passed in a whirlwind of grandchildren, mead and honey. Trips to London, trips to apiculture conferences, the annual North Carolina trip; long walks, rambling car trips. Their oldest granddaughter brought her boyfriend down to Sussex for a weekend. They told their grandfathers they’d like to get married in the church in town and asked if they could have the reception in the garden. She promised it would be a small affair with family and a few close friends, just as John and Sherlock’s had been. The husbands had eagerly agreed and the date was set for five weeks hence.

Sherlock was in the midst of preparing a paper on Varroa Mite and their effect on bee wing formation for publication in the Journal of Apicultural Research so most of the planning and arranging fell to John. He relished the extra closeness he developed with his precious firstborn granddaughter over those weeks of texts, emails and several daily calls to finalize plans. 

The wedding day had been mild with a slight overcast. When their granddaughter walked down the aisle on her father’s arm to Trumpet Voluntary, Sherlock had entwined his fingers with John's and squeezed. John glanced up to see tears in his husband’s eyes, and Sherlock whispered “until death do us part.” The young couple kept the ceremony simple, a mirror of John and Sherlock’s, and afterward Sherlock drove them to the country house in the Mustang. John had written ‘Just Married’ on the back windshield with white shoe polish before they drove to the church. John was happy to walk to the house with the rest of the celebrants. The local caterers took care of all the heavy work and a lavish buffet was waiting on the back lawn when they arrived. The afternoon and evening was a repeat of John and Sherlock’s wedding reception with the notable exception that Sherlock played a new waltz he’d composed for the couple; they danced on the brick patio just as their grandfathers had. And when the song was finished, they’d clasped hands and turned to their guests with shining faces and announced that along with the happiness of their newly married status, they were also expecting their first child the following March.

The evening wound down as guests left for the bed and breakfast in town family-by-family. Sherlock and John’s gift to the couple was a room for the night in at the inn in the next town. The newlyweds joined their family for breakfast the next morning at the B&B as did their grandfathers. By late afternoon the guests were gone save for the youngest four grandchildren, who were staying on for their annual week of ‘Grandpa Camp.’

Winter that year was especially cold and wet. The chill crept around the windowpanes at Baker Street and settled into John’s chest. His bad cold developed into pneumonia and John wound up in hospital for ten days. The first four days were touch-and-go with John delirious with fever. He drifted in and out of consciousness but even when he was awake, he didn’t recognize anyone and babbled nonsense. 

Sherlock was out of his mind with worry. He refused to leave John’s side until on the third day John’s son threatened to have him removed by Security. He’d grudgingly agreed to accompany him to Baker Street to sleep a few hours, eat and shower. John’s son prepared soup and toast. Sherlock ate, showered then fell into bed and slept for 12 hours. When he came to, John’s youngest daughter was in the kitchen cooking veal parmigiana. She told him that John’s condition had improved and that he was not allowed to return to the hospital until he’d eaten a full portion of dinner.

They shared their fears over dinner, a daughter’s fear of losing her father and a husband’s fear of losing his spouse. They held hands in the cab on the way back to the hospital, trying to draw comfort in the human contact. Sherlock took his violin and politely asked the nurses if he’d be allowed to play for John. They agreed and he played through the night when it seemed John rested easier to the sweet strains. 

John’s fever broke the next morning and his condition improved. His doctors told Sherlock they wanted to keep him until he was fully recovered but insisted that Sherlock go home part of each day to take care of himself; they didn’t want him to end up in the same bed after John checked out. Sherlock complied without argument. He was so wrung out from the days he thought he was losing John that he needed the rest.

John came home to Baker Street for a few days after discharge then Sherlock took him to Puerto Mazarron, Spain for three weeks. The heat and sun worked wonders to help him recover. They rented a tiny bungalow with a stunning view of the sea. They took life very easy, mostly staying at home so John could rest and venturing out in the evening for dinner. Sherlock had feared he’d be bored but found that just watching John’s face during his afternoon siesta was fascinating enough to occupy his mind. The terror that had settled in Sherlock’s heart during John’s four worst days kept a tight grip and he found that he needed to be touching his husband most of the day. 

During the second week John complained that Sherlock was smothering him with attention and sent him out with orders to take a long walk. Sherlock paced the narrow, winding streets for nearly two hours, trying to contain his panic at leaving John alone. He kept his phone clutched tight in his right hand; John had agreed he’d call immediately if he experienced the slightest sign of physical distress. John was sleeping peacefully when Sherlock arrived back at the bungalow and he crawled into bed and spooned his husband tight. John woke with a gentle smile and they made love the rest of the afternoon. Their acts of passion finally loosened the terror’s grip on Sherlock’s heart and he slept peacefully for the first time since John fell ill.

They decided to spend the rest of the winter in Sussex to escape London’s damp. They built roaring fires in the living room, read voraciously, watched action movies and generally took life slowly waiting for Spring to arrive. They went up to Baker Street in March to await the arrival of their first great-grandchild. The call came on a sunny afternoon when the first hint of spring filled the air. They arrived at the hospital to be greeted by John’s daughter and son-in-law and the other set of new grandparents. They were allowed to go into the birthing room in pairs. Sherlock was visibly uncomfortable but Doctor Watson relished the experience. The attending midwife invited him to stay in the room but Sherlock slipped off to the waiting room with relief. Labor was blessedly short and John fetched Sherlock for the actual birth; Sherlock went to the room under protest, but was so moved by the beauty of birth, of hearing his great-grandson’s first strong cry that he’d wept openly when his turn came to hold the healthy boy. 

The young couple named their son John Sherlock; they joked that they still had four names in reserve for future sons – William, Scott, Hamish and Holmes. Sherlock rolled his eyes and said he’d never cared for Scott. Later that night in bed John said that he never ceased to be amazed to learn new things about his husband after so many years. Sherlock said it had never been an issue since he never used any name except Sherlock, and that he’d never really dwelt on how the name Scott repelled him. John laughed and called him a silly git and asked why he hadn’t mentioned it when John had gone on about how much he hated Hamish. Sherlock had just shrugged and captured John’s lips in a kiss, telling him they didn’t have time to waste on such silly discussions when there were so many better things they could do with their mouths. And they did those things until the moon rose.

Sherlock opened the pool on the first warm day and resumed his swimming regimen but forbade John to take a dip until full Spring arrived. While the tiny pool was heated, the heating system wasn’t sufficient enough to keep it swim-ready during winter’s chill. John regained his strength as Spring bloomed and by Summer had his full stamina back. Both men recommitted to their fitness regimen and became even more strict about their diet. John hired a man to till up more ground, expanding the vegetable garden by a third. He switched to all-organic gardening methods. Sherlock joked that they needed the chemicals in their food to preserve them longer.

They had serious talks late at night, twined together, Sherlock with his ear on John’s chest to hear the reassuring beat of his heart, the rush of blood through his veins. Sherlock wept and told John he didn’t want to live without him but he also didn’t want to leave him alone. John wept and asked Sherlock if he was a weak man for praying that he go first because he couldn’t face a day in a world devoid of Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock was so overcome he got out of bed and played his violin the rest of the night. They agreed both of their bodies would be cremated and their ashes interred in the plot Sherlock had bought next to Victor’s. John said he didn’t think Mary would mind that his body wasn’t laid next to hers, and it only seemed right that his eternal rest be in same place he’d married his husband.

Sherlock lost another hive to colony collapse disorder that summer. Two of his apprentice grandchildren were visiting when they discovered the abandoned hive. Their dismay had tempered Sherlock’s own. The children loved their bees as much as their grandfather loved them; together they shared the grief of their loss. John packed a picnic lunch and took them all to Seven Sisters Country Park for the day. The fresh setting and time outdoors helped. The children ran and played until they were tuckered out and fell asleep in the car on the way home.


	7. Of grief and books and happiness

Life wasn’t perfect. Sherlock was still Sherlock and John’s prickly side had mellowed only a little with age. They still bickered and John still nagged. Sherlock still forgot the time and disappeared into his mind palace, not talking, for days on end. John still had to smooth over other people’s feelings when Sherlock said something offensive without even realizing it. Life was messy and dirty and easy and breathtaking; its very brokenness, life’s greatest beauty.

John got so angry at Sherlock that he didn’t speak to him for two days. He slept curled in a tight ball facing away from his husband. He slammed around the house muttering darkly. On the third day Sherlock finally broke and apologized and even refrained from adding that he still didn’t see that he’d done anything wrong. That was a first for the proud man and when he realized how far a simple ‘I’m sorry’ with no additional qualifiers went to smoothing over John’s feelings. He wondered why he’d spent so many years always needing to have the last word.

Mycroft passed away peacefully in his sleep at age 84. Sherlock was shocked at how much he missed his brother. Mycroft worked right up to the end and had a full schedule booked for the next day. Sherlock imagined that his brother had been quite offended to wake up in Heaven instead of his bedroom and had informed God that he was too busy for such nonsense. Mycroft left his estate to Sherlock and John except for the sum he left to Cambridge to endow a scholarship in his memory. Sherlock arranged the funeral in London and had his brother’s ashes interred on the other side of Victor’s in in the churchyard at their village in Sussex. He cried in John’s arms in the shelter of their bedroom at Baker Street after the funeral and said he felt like an orphan, that all his family was dead. John had pulled him tight and reminded him he was a Watson now and that meant a family that could barely fit in all three floors of Baker Street. Sherlock needed to feel alive, to feel the pulse of life in his veins, so John offered his husband comfort in the way they’d come to give and take it, through passionate embraces and and shared orgasms.

Harry went next and John learned the unique pain of losing a sibling. Clara took care of the final arrangements but John still felt an empty place in his heart that his sister had filled. Their relationship had not been especially close but he didn’t know that he’d taken so much comfort in just the thought that she was a phone call away, until she wasn’t. Clara sold their flat and moved to Derbyshire to be with her sister and her sister’s children and grandchildren. They kept in touch but Clara never came to visit. She developed arthritis in her knees and hips that made traveling difficult; John understood and was careful to send her pictures of each new great-grandchild as they came and to visit her a few times a year, taking along either Sherlock or one of the children or grandchildren. Clara remained a part of the Watson clan even though she could no longer attend their family get-togethers in person.

The added grief of another hive lost to colony collapse drove Sherlock to find a new escape. He stayed up all night writing a story, part science fiction and part fantasy, about bees who had fled their hive. The story followed the lives and adventures of the homeless bees until they found a sanctuary, a place where they were not exploited by humans who took their honey without asking. In the morning John read it and proclaimed it quite funny. Sherlock took offense but when he re-read what he’d written later that day he did see the humor he’d woven into the bees’ stories. John encouraged him to add more and within a few weeks Sherlock had written 88,000 words and quite by accident had finished a novel. John called the manager of the agency that still updated Sherlock’s beekeeping blog and asked for introductions to any literary agents the manager might know. It turned out the agency had a sister company in publishing. John sent Sherlock’s manuscript to an editor who called within a week to offer Sherlock a book contract. The agency created an integrated marketing plan to tie the book in with Sherlock’s blog and create a new side-blog based on some of the bee characters in the book.

Quite without meaning to, Sherlock Holmes published a best-selling novel. The agency’s PR division arranged a book tour of England, Scotland and Ireland. The media picked up on his rediscovered popularity and recapped his days as the only consulting detective in the world appeared in several papers. Sherlock’s editor approached John with the idea of making their old detective blog into a book. John was pleased and faltered by the offer and set about arranging and editing the blog entries into chapters, adding details of their adventures and their lives at the time. It turned out he had enough material for three books and the publisher expanded the offer to be a series. John insisted that Sherlock be listed as coauthor. Sherlock had vehemently refused, insisting that John had done all the work and deserved all the credit. They eventually compromised – Dr. John Watson would be the sole author but the title would be The Frankly Ridiculous Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: world’s only consulting detective.

While John was busy writing his first book, Sherlock was busy with his second. He found that writing the stories of each individual bee in the missing colony to be healing and negotiated a three book contract with the publisher. His second book was published at the same time as John’s first. The PR agency launched a joint marketing campaign and they took a joint book tour to wild success. It seemed their ridiculous adventures were as popular as they’d been in their youth. The next two books of The Ridiculous Adventures, as Sherlock called the the series, were timed to coincide with two more bee fantasy volumes of Sherlock’s.

John pitched the idea to their publisher of producing children’s books based on both their works. Their agent agreed and the husbands co-authored silly stories about the consulting detective and his bees. Their oldest grandson was in art school; their editor agreed to give the young man the illustration contract for the book. One of the happiest moments of John’s life was holding the first edition of that book and seeing his name, Sherlock’s and their grandson’s on the cover.

They donated signed first edition copies to the library of every school they, the children and the grandchildren had attended. John’s oldest daughter asked them to give a reading and author talk at the various schools the grands and greats attended. Much to his surprise, Sherlock had loved reading to groups of young children at their primary schools. He’d known John would excel at reading and relating to the children but had never imagined how much fun he would have. Sherlock pitched the idea for an Adventures of Sherlock Holmes children’s book to their publisher mostly so he’d have an excuse to go back to the schools and read it to the classrooms. Their publisher loved the idea and they once again collaborated with their artist grandson.

John’s 80th birthday approached and he begged his husband and children to let it pass without a fuss. They’d all agreed with wide smiles that clued John in that plans were already in the works. His children, their spouses and the grandchildren still at home came to Baker Street for lunch the day before his actual birthday. Sherlock had ordered a cold buffet delivered and seemed distracted most of the day; John attributed it to the fact that John himself usually took care of the details of party planning and Sherlock was showing the strain of hosting a meal for 12 people. After the guests left Sherlock took John to bed and loved him until he was exhausted. John fell happily asleep and slept on through the night.

He was surprised to awake the next morning to a pile of packed suitcases waiting by the door and a wide smile on the still-handsome face of his husband. Sherlock presented him with tickets for a ten day cruise leaving from Barcelona, visiting Naples, Sicily, Ravenna and ending up in Venice. Sherlock hurried his husband through breakfast and had a cab waiting waiting downstairs when John emerged from the bathroom dressed and groomed.

The cruise was both glorious and tedious. The ports of call were amazing but the time spent on ship set Sherlock’s nerves on edge. He hadn’t taken into account the long periods of down time when he booked the trip. John was content to sit in a deck chair and read but Sherlock paced the decks like a caged animal. The nightlife of the ship held little interest for either man; casinos, nightclubs, arcades and shows were not their cup of tea. Overall the time they spent in the beautiful and historic cities outweighed the boredom of the ship. John had sternly admonished Sherlock to leave his laptop at home but Sherlock had snuck it into his suitcase at the last minute. Both men ended up happy he brought it along because it gave him something else to do aboard ship other than pace. He started a new book of his bee sci fi/fantasy series and managed to complete nearly half of it in the nine days.

That summer their artist grandson brought his young man to Sussex to meet them. He’d never really “come out” to his family because he hadn’t the need – his parents and the rest of the family had simply accepted him for who he was since he was a child. The two young men nervously asked the grandfathers if they could hold their wedding in the local church and reception in the cottage garden. Sherlock and John eagerly agreed and after a pleasant weekend meeting with the pastor and owners of the bed and breakfast, the future grooms returned to London with their grandfathers’ promise to make the necessary arrangements.

When they were finally alone in the house John joked to Sherlock that he felt like a professional events planner. That gave Sherlock the idea to actually hire an events planner to free up John from the responsibility and busy work of planning another wedding. It worked out splendidly and the big day went off without a hitch. The grooms asked Sherlock to provide the music for the ceremony; he played _Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring_ for the processional and Handel’s _Solomon, HWV 67 - Arrival Of The Queen Of Sheba_ adapted for violin solo for the recessional; it was lighter and sweeter than traditional organ music and the acoustics of the church had turned the tunes into hauntingly beautiful masterpieces. Later at the reception Sherlock played a waltz he’d written for the grooms; they danced on the patio where their grandfathers and cousins before them had started married life to Sherlock’s beautiful original compositions.


	8. Of new hobbies and kittens and grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNING - major character death

The summers flew past in Sussex and the winters in London. John found his hands to be increasingly stiff and Sherlock suggested he take up the piano to keep them limber. John had played as a youth but hadn’t touched a piano since before he went to war. Sherlock had lessons as a child but gave it up in favor of the violin when he was seven. They decided to re-learn to play together. Mycroft’s townhouse had sat empty since his passing; they’d never been able to bring themselves to sell it and it was too far out of the way for the grandchildren to use as student lodging. Sherlock arranged to have Mycroft’s piano moved from the townhouse to their cottage. It barely fit into the dining room so they shoved the dining room table against the far wall when they were home alone to leave plenty of room for playing. Of course Sherlock picked up the piano with lightning speed, playing like he’d had lessons his entire life within a matter of weeks. John’s musical aptitude was small and shallow; he learned by repetition and hard work, not by talent. 

They hired a young woman to come to the house weekly for their lesson. Sherlock grumbled that he could have given John lessons for free; John countered that he’d probably dig out his gun before the end of the first lesson, so if Sherlock valued his life, the young teacher would need to continue to come. John progressed from adult beginner to intermediate lesson books; the teacher found a book of simple piano/violin duets. Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed that it was an insult to his violin to play such simple tunes. John grabbed his collar and hauled him down for a passionate kiss; he pulled back and told his husband that if he wanted more where that came from, he’d play the bloody duets. Sherlock jumped in and played with enthusiasm while John plunked away at the keyboard and later that night Sherlock was richly rewarded for his efforts.

The grandchildren grew, cycling in and out of Baker Street as they obtained degrees. There was never an empty bedroom save for John and Sherlock’s when they were down in Sussex. More weddings, most of them in Sussex, highlighted the years. More great grandchildren joined John Sherlock. The cousins kept up the family tradition of naming them after their grandparents. Before long all the names had been used in various combinations: John and Sherlock multiple times, plus William and Victor and Holmes and Scott and Hamish (John kept his opinion of that one to himself) and Victor and Trevor. The girls were named Mary and Elizabeth and Willa and Victoria and Vickie and the youngest great granddaughter bore the name Johnnie.

John and Sherlock’s passion for each other never dimmed. Every kiss, every touch was as exciting as it had been the first time they’d come together. They often went to bed at dusk but went to sleep long past midnight. Sherlock’s imagination never ceased to amaze John; he continually came up with inventive ways to give and receive pleasure that would have made Irene Adler blush. Sherlock found he had an increasing need to touch John as they grew older. He could barely stand to even sit across from him at the kitchen table; they took to sitting side-by-side so Sherlock could rest his hand on John’s knee or elbow. He asked John to drive when they took the car out so he could lie his hand on John’s leg; when Sherlock drove, both hands were occupied. John said Sherlock was just making up for the first 38 years of his life during which he’d been touch-starved. Sherlock countered it was because his husband was so gorgeous, he just couldn’t keep his hands to himself.

The bees, the family, the writing, the traveling, the music – it all made for days full of activity and the husbands were never bored. They found a tiny orange kitten in the road during one of their walks into town. It had been mewing forlornly, lost from its mother. Sherlock tucked it into his coat pocket and carried it home. They named it Cheddar simply for the folly of the silly name. The kitten became devoted to Sherlock, following him around the garden and sleeping at his feet. John groused that he was the one who fed the cat, so why did it love Sherlock so single-mindedly? Unlike most cats, Cheddar liked riding in the car and made the rounds of the hives with Sherlock most days. As the kitten grew he cleared the garden of rodents and earned his keep by keeping birds out of the corn.

Their happiness was dimmed by Greg’s death. He caught a virus that went to his lungs and died after three days in ICU. Molly was inconsolable; Sherlock and John extended their usual winter stay at Baker Street by another month to be with her. They kept her busy with their grandchildren and great grandchildren, took her to lunch and dinner, made up the couch at Baker Street for her on the nights she didn’t want to be alone, and generally cemented her place in their family even more firmly. When late spring came and they needed to get back to their garden and bees, they invited Molly to come stay in the bedroom under the eaves. She declined to spend the entire summer but did visit, often for days at a time. Greg’s daughters had always considered Molly like a mother so their children were also Molly’s grandchildren. Between the extended Watson clan and her own smaller circle of family, Molly had care and support nearly round the clock.

Sherlock turned 80 surrounded by family and friends at Baker Street. His full head of thick curls made it intact to 80 although it had equal amounts salt and pepper instead of rich sable. He was as upright and lean as he’d been at 40 and the only thing that slowed him down was a touch of stiffness in his knees. He’d added black Buddy Holly glasses to his look as his vision grew weak; they made him look even more distinguished. Both he and John remained as sharp of mind as they’d been the day they met. Sherlock’s tetchiness mellowed over the years and he found that he very much enjoyed parties and family gatherings. He was better able than John to keep straight all grandchildren’s spouses, boyfriends, girlfriends and great-grandchildren. He often marveled aloud that at 30 he’d thought ‘Alone protects me’ and look at where he was at 80 – surrounded my more family and friends than he could ever have imagined. He made a rambling yet coherent speech at his birthday party about how John had redeemed him from a life of loneliness: first as a friend, then as a best friend, lover and at last as a husband. The grandchildren pulled faces and made gagging motions but Sherlock wasn’t bothered. The room might as well have contained stumps for an audience - he had eyes only for John.

The husbands became fast friends with the couple who owned the bed and breakfast. They often stopped in for breakfast on one of their morning rambles and were always a hit with the overnight guests. They gave their friends signed copies of all their books to leave in the guestrooms; the guests loved having the esteemed best-selling authors at their breakfast table. The couples traded luncheon invitations. The B&B served Sherlock’s honey and John’s mead and gave out flyers for the shop in town that sold the products. In return, the B&B proprietors gave the men’s family and friends a good rate whenever too many visited at a time to accommodate comfortably at the cottage. Cheddar was even welcome at the B&B, when Sherlock stopped in for breakfast on his way out to monitor his hives with his feline companion. The owners kept a dish of kibble in the corner of the kitchen for Cheddar.

One warm September day John went along with Sherlock and his cat to record data from the hives. They returned home and picked ripe tomatoes and basil from the garden. They sliced the tomatoes together with thick slabs of creamy mozzarella cheese, drizzled olive oil and sprinkled the fresh basil over it all for lunch. After lunch they dragged the hammock frame into the shade and spent the afternoon talking languidly and dozing with Sherlock tucked into the hollow of John’s shoulder. They walked into town for dinner at the pub where they visited with neighbors and acquaintances. They strolled home arm-in-arm and spent the evening on the sofa, each pecking away at his own laptop, Sherlock’s feet in John’s lap. They retired early and went to sleep late, showing each other how much they were in love until sleep overtook them. Sherlock got up to use the loo in the night; he curled around John when he returned, spooning him tight and lacing their fingers together over John’s chest. John murmured Sherlock’s name sleepily; Sherlock kissed his nape and told him to go back to sleep.

In the morning Sherlock woke to find John gone. His body was still in his spot in the bed but his spirit, his essence – what made John _John_ \- had fled to eternity during the night. He’d gone silently, peacefully, without a fuss. Sherlock dragged a chair to the bedside and spent an hour calmly contemplating the face he loved best in the world. His mind was numb; a soft buzzing filled his ears. He shook himself from his stupor at last and calmly called the children to tell them their father was dead. He held himself in tight check until he called Molly. He wasn’t able to get any words out through the hurricane of his grief when he heard her voice, but she understood instantly. She grabbed her purse, jumped in the car immediately and arrived before anyone else. 

Sherlock had calmed enough to notify the coroner and funeral director. They arrived at the same time just after Molly’s arrival. As John had done when Victor died, Molly took Sherlock’s hand and gently led him out of the house so he didn’t have to watch his husband’s body be removed. He pulled away and turned back, slipping the still-gleaming platinum band off John’s cold hand, then allowed Molly to settle him on the patio. He unclasped the gold chain around his neck and slipped John’s ring on beside Victor’s then clasped it securely and settled it under his shirt. His hand shook where he held it over his heart and over the rings.

The coroner came out to tell them it was obvious John suffered a painless cardiac arrest and there was no need for an autopsy at his advanced age. The funeral director took the body for immediate cremation. Sherlock and John had long ago written out their wishes for cremation and funeral so Sherlock was saved the pain of having to make arrangements.

John’s funeral was held under a large canopy in the church yard; the husbands had agreed they didn’t want to bring sadness into the place where they’d experienced their greatest happiness, so their funerals would not be held inside the church. Sherlock stayed up the prior 36 hours composing a violin tribute to his best friend. He didn’t speak during the service but concluded it with a moving performance John’s song. The music told a tale of loneliness that warmed into friendship, then lilted into the years they’d been married to other loves and their lives had been full of children and work; it then mellowed into a new-found love and ended on golden whole notes, entire measures slurred to voice Sherlock’s grief. Without a word he’d told the story of John’s life and his; there wasn’t a dry eye in the crowd. 

Sherlock hadn’t paid any attention to the service and didn’t have a clue what anyone had said. Molly knew this would happen so she asked the funeral director to record the service. Sherlock could play it later, when he was better able to take it in. He never did.

John’s ashes were interred next to Victors; the headstone now bore two men’s names and dates and “beloved husband.” Additional script appeared under John’s: beloved father, grandfather and great grandfather. There was room between the two names for Sherlock’s; the empty space waiting for his name comforted him. Sherlock sat silent through the after-funeral meal in the garden, neither hearing nor acknowledging the condolences given by family and friends. He stroked the rings on the chain hidden by his shirt and stared absently into space.  
When Molly could take Sherlock’s silent grief no more, she took his hand gently and led him to his and John’s bedroom. She shut the door and turned the lock then sat on the edge of the bed. Sherlock stood by indecisively until Molly opened her arms wide. He flung himself into the comforting circle of her embrace and wept wildly. Molly held and stroked and rocked her friend gently, making soothing murmurs until the hurricane of his grief tapered off. She took the handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his face tenderly then led him back to the garden, where he finally engaged with his family and friends. Guests wandered off to catch trains or make the drive back to London; Molly stayed on. She’d long since retired from Bart’s and didn’t have any pressing reason to return to London. The children were the last to leave. Molly walked them out and assured them she’d stay on as long as her friend needed her.

Days turned to weeks and Molly still stayed. She got Sherlock up the morning and made his breakfast. He sat at the kitchen table picking at his plate and moving food around while drinking coffee. She told him when to shower, what to wear, drove him to the hives and helped him record data. Data sheets piled up on his desk but weren’t entered in Sherlock’s database. She walked him into town holding his elbow; he followed her around the shops like a ghost and showed no interest in what she bought or where they went. 

Sherlock mostly existed in his own mind. He barely heard anything spoken around him and was bewildered to find himself with Molly at various locations with no memory of how they’d gotten there. He thought about the sting of a needle in his arm, the blessed languid feeling of sinking into a heroin haze. He thought about the stinging bite of blow in his nose and how alive it made him feel. He knew even while thinking of these that they were just fantasies. He’d been clean for so many years, he had no contacts in the underworld and no way to get drugs even if he’d truly wanted to. Who would take an old man seriously if he asked after smack or coke? But he found himself craving a fix more than he had on the day of Victor’s diagnosis.

After six weeks of his spectral existence, Molly called the children. They and their spouses descended on the cottage on a Saturday in September. Together with Molly they staged an ‘intervention,’ telling Sherlock that John would not have wanted him to fall apart after his death. Sherlock knew they were right but just didn’t have the energy to engage in the scene. He let his mind wander, watching their lips move but not taking in what they said until Molly rose and got his attention. Out of frustration, out of the pain of watching her dear friend fall apart, she resorted to an action she hadn’t done since before she was 30; she slapped Sherlock Holmes across the face, hard. She slapped him again for good measure, simply because the first slap had been so satisfying. 

The children looked on in horror but Sherlock shook his head and grinned. The light of life came back into his eyes; he smiled. He told Molly he was sorry she still wore her wedding band, because that would not have hurt so much if her hand were bare. They laughed and embraced and Sherlock seemed his old self again. He and the children made an agreement about activities he would do and how often they’d check in. Molly agreed to stay on at the cottage until Sherlock shut it up and moved to Baker Street for the winter. It wasn’t a miracle cure. Sherlock still had many bad moments during the day, where something would painfully remind him of John and he’d stare off into space, drowning in sorrow. He had bad days, when it was too much effort to do anything more than lie on the sofa with his arm over his eyes with silent tears soaking the sleeve of his dressing gown. Molly understood – she’d been much the same after Greg’s death. She was gentle with Sherlock but didn’t let him fall into a well of melancholy.

Molly hired a teen to carry down the boxes and boxes of case files that still sat in the corner of the bedroom under the eaves. In the evenings she and Sherlock sorted and annotated and labeled documents and pictures. When Sherlock was satisfied everything was in order, Molly sent the boxes off to be scanned by a ditigitizing service. Every scrap of every case file was scanned and then the paper files destroyed. The ditigitizing service loaded the files to the blog, which still continued to get daily hits so many years after Sherlock and John retired from the work. 

Sherlock’s publisher sent out a press release about the case file postings and sales of John’s books soared. The publisher contacted Sherlock about producing a series of chapter books for middle school children based on The Ridiculous Adventures. Sherlock didn’t have interest in actually writing, but agreed that the series could be ghost-written under his name as long as he had final sign-off on each book. He found that he enjoyed reading the simple, direct style of the books and felt closer to John as he read each manuscript with a red pen in hand.


	9. Of new interests and time moving on

November came and Sherlock, Molly and Cheddar headed back to their London abodes. Both friends found themselves missing the other. Sherlock took to staying the night in Molly’s second bedroom several times a week. All the bedrooms were full at Baker Street so Molly slept on the sofa when she didn’t want to return to her lonely townhome. One day Sherlock told her she may as well sell her home and move in. Molly giggled and told him if Sherlock Holmes had asked her 50 years before it would have been her every dream come true. Eventually she did take him up of the offer. The two grandchildren sharing 221A moved into one bedroom to free up the other for Molly and she gratefully moved her bedroom furniture and personal possessions into Mrs. Hudson’s former flat.

Both Sherlock and Molly enjoyed the energy of having the young people around. The doors to all three flats in Baker Street remained open all day; the young people floated in and out sharing games of chess or cups of tea with their grandfather and Aunt Molly. Sherlock’s grandson and his husband still lived in the bedroom upstairs even though both had long since finished their degrees and taken jobs. His grandson was hired as an art editor at Victor’s old agency and his husband worked in finance. Sherlock found them to be agreeable flatmates and since the last of the grandchildren were now in university there wasn’t any reason for them to move. 

The youngest four grandchildren, Sherlock’s beekeeping hopefuls, were all studying science. Three of them were at North Carolina State University, still considered to have the best apiculture program in the world and the fourth was at UCL. She told her grandfather and parents she wasn’t ready to move across the pond so she’d get a biology degree at UCL then attend graduate school for apiculture at NCSU. Sherlock had fretted and grumbled but been secretly happy to have her close so she could continue helping with his hives and his longitudinal study. She accompanied Sherlock on his annual North Carolina trip; they had to take it in January during her break between terms. It worked out well since NCSU’s terms were on a different calendar. The weather in North Carolina was crisp and mild. Sherlock invited all four grandchildren to dinner along with the winner of Victor’s scholarship. Dinner was lively and jovial and the students all agreed they’d made new friends that night.

Opening up the cottage seemed to take more energy than Sherlock remembered. He hired a young man to help in the garden and maintain the lawn and felt not an ounce of shame as he lay in the hammock watching the man mow and weed. The part time gardener had a girlfriend who agreed to come twice a week and do the heavy housekeeping. Molly’s standards of cleanliness were much higher than Sherlock’s and John’s had ever been; she spent considerable time trying to keep up with Sherlock’s messes. The housekeeper freed Molly to spend more time lying in the hammock cuddling Cheddar on her lap.

One summer afternoon Sherlock wandered into the pantry looking for a box of biscuits. He noticed John’s buckets, still full of the last batch of mead he’d mixed. Sherlock fell to his knees and howled, grief crashing over him in endless waves. Molly had gone to town to fetch milk so there was no one to hear. He gave himself over to his sorrow, drowning in self pity and shrieking out his pain. Molly found him there, sitting on the floor staring at the buckets with his face wet and blotchy. She led him gently to the bedroom and tucked him in, curling around his back and holding tight until he fell into an exhausted sleep. Once he was asleep she got up and called the grandchildren that had helped John with the mead. They came the following weekend and racked the last batch. Sherlock sat at the kitchen table watching miserably. He felt like he was losing John again by finishing the last thing John had started.

A microbrewery and craft ale house had opened in town the prior year. The grandchildren approached the owners about taking over mead production. The owners were three young men with bushy beards and long hair dressed in Levis and plaid flannel shirts. They only brewed beers and ales but when they sampled the bottles of mead and the grandchildren explained how easy mead making was, they eagerly agreed to try a season as mazers. The grandchildren delivered John’s mead making equipment and helped mix the first batch, carefully following John’s recipes. 

Mead became so popular that the brewers turned half of the square footage in their brew house to mead production. They soon took Sherlock’s entire honey harvest; Sherlock ended the contract with the honey processor and the three brewers took over harvesting. The Frankly Ridiculous Mead of John Watson became so popular they bottled it for distribution. It became the cornerstone of their microbrewery and turned the highest profit of any of their brews. Sherlock and the grandchildren became fast friends with the brewers. He and Molly liked to walk into town to visit them in the brew house when they were mixing or bottling mead. Sherlock sat by in a wooden chair and looked on and thought of John mixing his first batch in a plastic bucket in the kitchen so long ago. 

The granddaughter who had stayed for UCL dated one of the brewers and they became engaged the following Christmas. She spent most weekends in Sussex flitting between her grandfather’s cottage and the flat over the brew house the three brewers shared. They married just weeks after her graduation. Sherlock wasn’t at all disappointed she decided to ship the graduate degree at NCSU. She got more practical experience in beekeeping and research at his side than she would have gotten in two additional years in a classroom and it comforted him that she and her husband would carry on John’s mead making. He talked over his plan to leave the cottage to the couple with John’s children; they all agreed it was a perfect idea.

Sherlock finally arranged to sell Mycroft’s townhome. It had set empty for many years being maintained a service company that kept it clean and in repair. He invited the family to take whatever they wanted from the contents; a service held an estate sale for what remained. Since Mycroft had already endowed a scholarship through his will, Sherlock used the substantial proceeds from the sale of both home and contents to establish a scholarship in John’s name at his alma mater. He set the terms that it was to be given to two students per year who had already committed to serve in the Royal Army Medical Corps after earning their medical credentials. Sherlock took a seat on the review committee for the first two recipients and was sure John would have been pleased with the impressive young man and young woman who wanted to both heal and serve their country.

Summer came again with the move to the country and his precious bees. Sherlock proposed a new project to his publisher: a book of his original compositions, interspersed with pictures and stories around the songs. He and Molly sorted through his hand-written sheet music. Some of it was yellowed with age. He was unable to find the sheet music he’d written out for several of his songs so he installed a program on his laptop that recorded his playing and transcribed the score. It was much less tedious than writing it all out by hand again. 

He began to compose again, closing his eyes and letting the music flow through him. It was so much easier to do with the new program. He found renewed energy through composing and poured his grief and loneliness for John into new compositions. Molly listened with tears in her eyes, feeling her grief over losing Greg welling afresh at the hauntingly beautiful melodies. When he’d played out his grief Sherlock turned to composing songs of their life together. Happy melodies filled the house, telling of adventure and excitement and later mellowing love. He even composed some songs at the piano in honor of John’s labors to learn the instrument. 

The original project turned into two volumes: Sherlock’s early compositions and another of his compositions for his family and John. His publisher wanted him to do a book tour for the release but he declined, not wanting to take time away from his bees and his renewed passion for music.

Two new great grandchildren were born that summer. Sherlock went up to London for both arrivals. He was touched that the boy’s parents named him Mycroft Liam to carry on Sherlock’s brother’s name and honor Sherlock and his newest great granddaughter was given the name Scottie Beth. The depth of emotion he experienced when he held Mycroft’s name sake left him shaken; he hadn’t realized how very much he missed his brother until he held the tiny baby. 

There was another wedding, this time in London, another of the beekeeping grandchildren. Her husband was American; they’d met at NCSU and were both apiologists. Sherlock was thrilled to have another apiologist in the family. He and Molly gave over the cottage to them for their honeymoon. The couple spent two weeks in the country tending the hives and garden while Sherlock and Molly stayed on at Baker Street and made the rounds of their families. Sherlock worked his contacts in the English beekeeping community and was able to find graduate programs in London with teaching assistant stipends for both the bride and groom. The happy couple took up residence in Baker Street after their honeymoon.

Instead of shutting up the cottage that fall, Sherlock invited his apiologist granddaughter and brewmaster grandson-in-law to move into the bedroom under the eaves permanently. They eagerly accepted. They moved in the same day Sherlock and Molly headed to London for the winter. Sherlock felt an air of finality when he and Molly boarded the train. Instead of making him feel sad, it brought a sense of relief. He stroked the rings on the chain under his shirt on the train ride to London and knew it wouldn’t be long until he was reunited with both of his beloveds. 

He and Molly settled happily into Baker Street. He arranged a few needed repairs to the flats: a new water heater for 221B, adding exhaust fans to all the bathrooms to help avoid damp, new coats of paint for the exterior and front door. He was happy to oversee the workmen and lend a hand when needed but mostly kept out of remodeling work that time around. 

John’s oldest granddaughter hosted Christmas that year. It was a merry day with new great grandchildren to fill Sherlock’s lap. Molly spent Christmas with Greg’s daughters and their grandchildren; she stayed on several days after. Sherlock missed her but understood. The family gathered at Baker Street to celebrate his birthday with cake and mead brought up by the brewers from Sussex. To his surprise and delight, the family had pitched in and established a scholarship in his honor in the Chemistry department at Cambridge. He read the letter from the University congratulating him with tears in his voice.

Sherlock remained manic about composing. Baker Street gave him new inspirations and ideas - he often spent the entire night playing at the window, just like in the old days. With his laptop taking over transcribing he was free to compose for hours on end without interruption. He spent the afternoons editing his compositions. By his birthday he had enough new material for another songbook to add to his collection. His publisher agreed and he a Molly and the resident grandchildren spent afternoons and evenings sorting pictures and writing memories to publish along with the sheet music. His publisher became frustrated about not being able to finalize the project when he continued to send new compositions for the collection. Eventually he agreed on the final collection and saved his new compositions for a later edition.

Molly began to drag him out of the flat at least every other day, concerned that he’d cocooned himself with his violin for too long. They visited Bart’s and the Yard. Their associates at both places had retired but Sherlock’s name was still remembered and gave them access to any areas they wished to explore. A young DI even gave Sherlock a box of cold case files. 

Sherlock felt the thrill of solving puzzles once more; he found connections in the files that lead to several of the cases being closed with arrests. The DI started sending cases to Sherlock that could be solved without his visiting the crime scene. Sherlock found himself almost pathetically grateful for the opportunity to dip his fingers into crime work again and alternated case file reviews with composing to balance out his days. 

He and Molly visited the church where he’d married Victor. They sat silently in the sanctuary for an hour - a happy silence that buoyed his spirits. They walked the park near Baker Street daily, often bringing Cheddar on a cat leash. Cheddar hated the leash but relished the opportunity to feel grass under his paws; he was a country cat and the winters in the city wore on him even though he had full run of all of Baker Street. All the residents knew to keep a keen eye out for an orange sleuth who liked to slip out the front door between unwary feet.


	10. Of the end and the beginning

Sherlock woke with a start in his bedroom one dark night in late April. The heaviness in his chest caused him to gasp for breath. He pressed his hands to his sternum and felt a momentary flash of regret, first that he’d leave his dear friend Molly alone to grieve and second that he hadn’t played his violin that evening. His fingers itched with longing to play just one more time. 

He relaxed into the pain and thought of his life. His early days as a misunderstood child, too bright to tolerate other children, then later as the outcast at university who had alienated his classmates by deducing their secrets; his days drugging away the pain of his different-ness; meeting Greg and finding his calling – the years of consulting with the Yard, then meeting John and having the best adventures of his life; falling in love with John and the years of painful pining; jumping, leaving and returning to find John in love with Mary; meeting Victor, marrying him and the years of happiness they shared; the pain of watching Victor deteriorate and the unbearable grief of burying his husband; the grief of losing his dear friend Mary and watching John’s pain and grief; the unexpected joy of John’s love, the happiness of their marriage, the clan John had so generously given him; the joy of watching that clan grow, marry and add babies; the years in Sussex with John, the sweetness of honey and mead; traveling with John and the children and grandchildren; the pain of Greg’s passing, the joy of an closer friendship with Molly.

He smiled, satisfied that he’d loved and worked and lived fully. He kicked off the covers and spread his arms wide to welcome Death’s embrace. Death settled on his chest; Sherlock clasped Death to him tenderly, like a lover. When Death lifted his head for a final kiss, Sherlock leaned in, returning it eagerly. 

And instantly he was free of pain, in a place of warmth and Light brighter than the sun but it didn't hurt is eyes – the Light was the warmth and the love he’d shared, the love he’d taken, the love he’d given. John was there on one side and Victor on the other. His brother, his parents, Greg, his grandparents, Mrs. Hudson – everyone he’d known who passed over before him was there, along with hundreds and hundreds of others that he hadn’t known personally but had known and admired him by his fame and reputation, all of them smiling and shouting welcome, crowding around to congratulate him on a life well lived. They fell back when the Light approached, all save John and Victor, who held both his hands tightly.

The Light was around him and in him; the Light was fully him and he was fully the Light. The Light embraced him and showed him golden bands that linked him with everyone he knew, thick, wide bands connecting him with John and Victor and all their family members and slightly thinner bands connecting him to Mycroft, Greg, Molly, Mary, Mrs. Hudson, his friends in the beekeeping community, and thin golden threads connecting him to everyone he’d met. The bands stretched out across Eternity and Earth and were not broken by his crossing the thin veil between the two. The Light spoke without words, by an instant understanding between The Light and Sherlock: “These bands show the love you gave and took. These bands are all that matter, they are your reason for existing in the world. You did well, precious child. You learned to love and to be loved. That love grew and multiplied every year until you gave more than you received. Only a true Master understands that while still incarnate – and you did.”

Sherlock questioned the Light about his work, his crime solving, his bees and his music. The Light again answered with instant understanding: “Work is necessary and important. You did the work of ten men, but just when it began to consume you and be the reason for your existence, you allowed Love in. Love saved you from your work. Without Love, your work would have been meaningless and crumbled to dust without your physical presence to tend it. With Love, your work will endure for generation after generation and your name will live on.” 

The Light showed Sherlock his work, spread out across the Earth, linked by silver threads. People were playing his compositions, reading his and John’s books, reading the blogs, studying his apiary research, making and drinking mead, attending classes thanks to the scholarships he’d established. The silver web stretched around the world and across time. Sherlock wept, overcome with joy that John had opened the Secret of Life for him and Victor had expanded the opening to let Love in.

Those who Sherlock had loved, those who had loved him, crowded around and Sherlock heard music of a beauty he could never have imagined. The music of his life and his legacy. A three way waltz was impossible in the corporeal world but possible in the Light; he and John and Victor danced that impossible dance in celebration of all they’d been and all they continued to be, without end, outside of time and space and the constraints of laws of the physical world. And to celebrate that they would do it again, and again, in different configurations, without end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting two chapters today, Ch. 10 and Epilogue. Please keep reading for the end of the story. THANKS for sticking with it and for reading!


	11. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting two chapters today, Ch. 10 and Epilogue. If you didn't read Ch. 10 then is chapter might not make sense. THANKS for sticking with it and for reading!

Molly found Sherlock the next morning. His face held a peaceful expression, his eyes closed and his arms crossed across his chest. She sat for a while, smoothing the hair from his brow and mourning, thinking over the lifetime that she’d loved him and the friendship they’d shared. She called the children. John’s son set the wheels into motion to give his grandfather a proper memorial.

They held the funeral in London, in St. Mary’s where Sherlock and Victor had wed. Sherlock’s publisher handled PR, placing notices on the bolgs and notifications in the papers. Thousands of people came to pay respects to their favorite author, their idol of crime solving, their colleague in beekeeping science, their favorite contemporary violin composer. The homeless were welcomed the same as esteemed government officials. The students who attended Cambridge thanks to Sherlock’s scholarship spoke, along with the children and several of Sherlock’s apiology colleagues. His music was played by violinists from the Academy of Saint Martin In the Fields chamber orchestra and pianists from the London Philharmonic Orchestra. Media outlets ran tributes to the great man and condolences poured in from around the globe.

His ashes were interred the following week. The church in Sussex set up a canopy for the family to celebrate his life privately even though the air still held a chill. His name was inscribed between Victor’s and John’s on the headstone, with a postscript of ‘beloved husband, father, grandfather and great grandfather.” 

The family adjourned to the cottage for food and memories. The afternoon turned sunny and warm; children played in the garden, chasing each other among the flowers and vegetable patches. Cheddar dozed in a sunny spot on the bricks of the patio. Someone started a fire in the fire pit – the adults sat around the fire drinking mead and sharing memories of the remarkable men they’d been privileged to call father, uncle, grandfather and great grandfather. One of the great grandchildren played Sherlock’s more simple compositions on the piano and violin alternately; he was in his fifth year of lessons and showing promise of carrying on Sherlock’s musical legacy. 

Molly floated from group to group surrounded by a cloud of grief. Her step daughters and grandchildren were there to comfort her along with the extended Watson clan. She’d stay on at the cottage, in Sherlock’s room so the young couple could keep the room under the eaves. She’d also stay on at Baker Street, moving her belongings to Sherlock’s room and sharing 221B with Sherlock’s grandson and grandson-in-law for several more winters.

The children found Sherlock’s unpublished compositions on his laptop. They published a slim volume in his memory that quickly became a bestseller. All of the proceeds went to Sherlock’s scholarship at Cambridge to allow additional students to study Chemistry. The children donated Sherlock’s violin to the Academy of Saint Martin In The Fields for use by its violin principals. His apiculture papers went to North Carolina State University along with funds to endow undergraduate and graduate scholarships in the Apiculture department in his memory. His laptop went to the young couple in Sussex, along with the deed to the cottage, with the stipulation that they continue Sherlock’s longitudinal studies with his hives. Of course the young couple accepted the terms; they’d already taken over the study and kept up the data records.

The family grew and married and moved, spreading out to America and Australia over the years. New babies carried the names that continued to be held sacred through the generations. Composers adapted and expanded on Sherlock’s music. Soloists, chamber orchestras and full symphonies performed his works around the world. He and John’s books continued to stay in print year after year. The children set up a foundation to maintain their legacy and their online content, chaired and maintained lovingly by Watsons over the years. A movie was made about Sherlock and John’s crime solving stories. It was so popular it became a trilogy and later was adapted into a television program that ran for eight seasons. The names Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson became household words.

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to Morwen_Maranwe for beta reading and making many helpful suggestions!


End file.
